


Comfort

by Roselightfairy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fangorn Forest, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Snuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 17:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12869049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: Conversations and confessions in Fangorn forest.





	Comfort

Legolas’s cry of delight barely reached Gimli’s ears – how far had he managed to venture into the trees? – but all the same, it was enough that Gimli lifted his eyes from the forest floor for just a moment, stopping mid-step to crane his neck around.  Not that he expected to see the elf; the noise had come from far in the trees, but he did not mind taking a moment to rest.  He leaned on the large stick Legolas had unearthed for him from among the bushes and wiped a hand across his forehead, blinking against the sweating air of the forest.

And then – far sooner than he would have expected – Legolas was swinging down from a tree with a whoop of laughter, landing softly next to Gimli.  Before Gimli could turn to him, or even open his mouth to speak, there was a slender hand over his eyes.

He jerked with a grunt of surprise, but the hand did not move, and then the other was on Gimli’s face, arresting his motion as two long fingers combed among his beard, probing for his mouth.

Another strangled sound issued from Gimli, but he was too surprised to pull away.  He was, of course, also too surprised to react in any other way, so the slim fingers continued their journey through Gimli’s mustache to brush along his lips.

Now Gimli did jerk back, pulling free of Legolas’s grip, though he had little time to see what Legolas was doing.  “What are you” – was all he could get out before the hand was over his eyes once more.

“This would be easier if dwarves did not insist on covering their faces with hair,” said Legolas, unperturbed.

His face was so close that Gimli could feel breath tickling his beard.  His throat dried out quite suddenly and he had to swallow hard before he could speak again.  “Well, if elves would learn to keep their hands to themselves” –

He could not finish.  Something landed in his mouth – he closed it in surprised reflex, and tasted an explosion of sweetness as the item gave way, crushed between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

The hand fell away from his eyes and Gimli could see again: Legolas crouched in front of him so that their heights were equal.  Twigs were tangled in his long hair, a broad grin stretched across his face, and juice-stained fingers held another berry to Gimli’s lips.

“Blackberries!” he exclaimed unnecessarily.  “I did not think to find so many in this season, but there they were – thick bushes heavy with them, large and perfectly ripe.  This forest is a place of wonder, indeed!”

Gimli opened his mouth to reply, and Legolas – quick as a blink – deposited the second berry on his tongue.  It was not in Gimli to protest, and so he chewed slowly, enjoying the juice filling his mouth, and Legolas produced a small cloth bundle from behind his back, purple already seeping through the fabric.  He released the ends he held together and a square of cloth unfolded in his palm, heaped high with berries.

Gimli swallowed, half-expecting Legolas’s fingers to approach his mouth yet again, but the elf simply waited, head cocked to the side, bent in front of Gimli with their heights still matched, eyes expectant, and Gimli could not stop himself from smiling.  “The bush did not seem so happy with your find as you are,” he commented, reaching out before he could stop himself to touch a scratch on Legolas’s hairline.  “Did it fight back?”

Legolas laughed, bright and cheerful.  “The bush was happy to give up its prize,” he responded.  “Only it was not so happy to give _me_ up!  I had to fight to free myself from its welcoming grip, so that I might bring back the fruits of my labor to you, my friend.”  He held out the cloth again, where berries tumbled over one another.

“A valiant struggle, indeed, and for a worthy prize!” Gimli laughed, and reached out to take another berry.  The one on top of the pile was bigger and juicier than the rest, but Gimli passed it by.  He chose one on the edge, instead, so that his fingers ran along Legolas’s palm.  Even with the cloth between them, the touch tingled, and before he could lose his nerve, Gimli reached out.  “Fair is fair,” he managed, and held the blackberry to Legolas’s mouth in turn.

Legolas’s face changed – eyes gentling from bright and excited to something else, mouth softening at the edges into a smile Gimli had only seen on his face a few times: helping him into a boat on the Anduin, just after the Lady’s gift; when Gimli had spoken with such rapture of the Glittering Caves; and again when Legolas had seen their wonder for the first time.  He spoke not, but his lips parted in anticipation of the gift, and Gimli felt warm breath on his fingers as he placed the berry between them.

Legolas closed his eyes and mouth at the same time, lips just touching Gimli’s fingertips.  Practically holding his breath, Gimli moved his hand back, then up – gently extricating a twig from Legolas’s hair, fingers weaving through silky strands for a moment before pulling it free.

Legolas’s eyes opened when Gimli’s hand left his hair, and he let out a soft sound: one that went straight through Gimli, sent thrills up and down his body.  Hands now at his sides, he kept his eyes on his friend’s face and waited.

“Gimli,” Legolas said, and then stopped.  He went to one knee, keeping their faces level.  One hand reached out to set the berry-filled cloth on the ground, but his eyes he kept locked on Gimli’s.

Gimli could not breathe enough to reply, but Legolas seemed to realize that.  “Gimli,” he repeated, and now a hand smoothed itself along the edge of Gimli’s face, palm resting against his beard; fingers curving around the bone beside his eye.  “There is something I would try, if you would allow it.”

There was not enough moisture in Gimli’s throat for any voice.  Instead of trying, he let the word out in a whisper: “Anything.”

Legolas leaned closer still; his lips parted just slightly so that Gimli could feel his breath on his own face.  Almost without his notice, his own head tilted and his body swayed, drawn to Legolas like a flower to the sun, or like ore to a magnet – or was there something in between that could encapsulate both of their worlds? –

And then their lips made contact, and all thought fled Gimli’s mind.

Legolas kissed him gently at first, lips nibbling at his once, twice, again – and then Gimli could move again, and he clamped his hands to Legolas’s shoulder blades, pulling their bodies closer in a clutch of heat; his mouth opened to the other and he drew Legolas in deeper.

They kissed for a moment, or maybe several moments – Gimli lost all sense of time; in fact, all sense of everything but the feeling of the mouth on his, the body pressed against him, slender but strong, the hands wound into his hair, tugging his face closer – kissed until Gimli’s head was whirling and his legs unsteady, and then finally Legolas pulled back.

The motion was abrupt enough that Gimli tipped a bit, not as firmly rooted to the ground as he liked to be, his hands falling back to his sides.  He caught himself quickly, though, and fixed his eyes on his friend’s face, taking it in: Legolas’s hair was mussed, eyes all pupil and gleaming, but they sharpened quickly into concern.  “Forgive me,” he said, and then paused for a shallow breath, “if I have offended.”

Gimli would have liked to take a moment to breathe himself, but found himself snapping to attention, eyebrows drawing heavy into a glare.  “The only offense you give is in thinking you offend,” he managed, wondering if his words had made as little sense to Legolas’s ears as they had to his own.

“I forgot myself,” Legolas murmured, and Gimli laughed.  He could not stop himself.

“Aye.”  The word came out in a rumble, deeper and hoarser than his voice usually was, but he paid it no mind; reached up to take Legolas’s hands in his own.  “I did, too, I believe.  And now that I have remembered, I find myself wishing I had not.  Remembered, that is,” he added hastily, only now realizing how that could sound, “not – the other.”

“Ah.” The elf’s eyes roamed over Gimli’s face again, and Gimli felt his cheeks warm under the scrutiny – more so when Legolas’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips.  “Do you wish to forget again, then?”

Gimli was not used to this – this bandying about of words.  Elves might play games with their speech, but dwarves did not – they were straightforward creatures, blunt as the stone they lived in, worked with, came from.  But there was a tentativeness to this conversation that Gimli had never felt before, that trapped his tongue in uncertainty and kept him speaking vaguely, matching Legolas’s riddles, for fear of disrupting the tension between them.  “If you do,” was all he could answer.

He could feel the pulse fast in Legolas’s hands, but then they slipped from his own and moved up to frame his face once more – uncertain words dissolving into knowing touch.  Their eyes held as Legolas leaned in closer, and Gimli had a thought.

“You elves,” he said, the words breathy from their closeness.  He reached up again to touch the scratch on Legolas’s forehead, traced his finger down along the curve of his face.  “You sleep with your eyes open.”

“We do.” Legolas did not move closer, but neither did he pull away.  His eyes flicked down to Gimli’s mouth, and then back up.  “Why do you mention this now?”

“Because I plan to close mine,” he replied – he could already feel his eyelids flickering as his own gaze slanted down to Legolas’s lips.  “And I do not want yours open to watch me.”

It was Legolas’s turn to laugh. “My dear dwarf,” he said fondly, and his lips were close enough to Gimli’s that they brushed his when he spoke, “This is nothing like falling asleep.”

And he closed his eyes first, and Gimli’s followed when Legolas’s mouth descended fully onto his.

They kissed longer this time: harder, more ardently.  Lips parted to one another, hands wound tightly into the other’s hair, bodies pressing hard together.  Gimli bore down on Legolas, pushing against him; Legolas pressed back with deceptive strength – but, unbalanced on his knees, his leverage was less and Gimli felt himself gaining ground.

Then Legolas made another _sound_ – this one louder, lower, and more _urgent_ than the last, a sound whose vibrations Gimli could feel in his mouth and throat – and gave way all at once; he tipped over backwards and Gimli felt them falling.

Even as they landed, Legolas on his back in the fallen leaves, his legs twitched up to clamp around Gimli’s hips; it was Gimli’s turn to groan, and Legolas used the momentum of his legs to roll them over, and now he was pressing Gimli back into the ground.  Leaf edges poked through Gimli’s hair to tickle his neck, a hard tree root wedged into his back, and the kisses became deeper, more desperate –

And then, without warning, they stopped.

Legolas broke away from his mouth and body all at once; he pulled back, his legs unwound from Gimli’s thighs, and he rolled off of Gimli until only his head remained.  Gimli could feel it resting on his chest, most of the weight taken up by his beard, but it still moved up and down as he breathed heavily, the warm weight comforting.

He curled a hand up to rest at the crown of Legolas’s head, stroking his hair and feeling the fine strands slip through his own calloused fingers.  A foreign object brushed against his fingers and he pinched the edge of the leaf, drawing it gently free.

And now Legolas was shaking with mirth, curling into Gimli’s side with his head still pillowed on his chest, laughter spilling out of his mouth as he buried his face in Gimli’s beard.

This was not altogether unalarming.  “What is it?” asked Gimli, still running hesitant fingers through Legolas’s hair.  “What have you” –

“Forgive me, Gimli,” Legolas gasped, but the attempt to steady himself soon dissolved into another round of mirth.  “I was just reminded – of what my father might say, were he to see me now.”

That was enough; Gimli felt the same mild hysteria rising within him, and soon he was laughing, too, starting as a low chuckle but soon building into heaving guffaws that caused Legolas’s head to bob up and down on his chest.  “Your father?” he groaned.  “And what of mine?  Befriending an elf would have been bad enough” – Legolas stiffened slightly, but it was a movement that did not immediately register with Gimli, and he continued – “but _this_ ” –

“This,” Legolas echoed, cutting him off.  The laughter had fled his voice, and his motion stilled against Gimli’s chest; his fingers, which had been tightening and loosening in Gimli’s beard, stopped as well.  Gimli found himself listening desperately for the elf’s heartbeat, with little other indication of life.  Before he could berate himself for that ridiculous concern, Legolas spoke again.  “What is _this_?”

“What do you mean?”  The edge of mirth had not yet faded from his throat, surprise mingling with laughter and choking his voice up a little.  Unlike certain capricious elves, it took both more reason and more time for Gimli’s moods to change.

There was another pause, and then Legolas sighed, long and deep as a river.  And then, with no sound but a rustle that might have been made by a squirrel, his weight was gone from Gimli’s chest.  “Gimli.”

Gimli sat up slowly, the last of his laughter swallowed up by Legolas’s absence, and by the sudden solemnity of his voice.  He looked over at where Legolas was now sitting: cross-legged with hands balanced, palms up, on his knees.  “Gimli, I am not the Lady.”

Gimli blinked.  “I know,” he said slowly.  The words _No, you are not as fair as she_ rose in his chest, and another time he might have released them along with another hearty burst of laughter, but now something stayed him.  It was the sight of Legolas, looking at him with unfamiliar eyes: wide and dark, no longer gleaming with the laughter that always seemed to cling to him, but with a seriousness that spoke of hope and fear.  And he _was_ beautiful, sitting in the sun-dappled shade with half the forest tangled in his hair and a smear of dirt on his cheek and his eyes reeling Gimli in, pulling away his thoughts until all he could say was, “You are Legolas.”

“Legolas.”  The elf echoed his own name in a whisper, almost a sigh.  He tipped his head back as though under a waterfall, his shoulders relaxing and drawing out the line of his throat.  “Never have I thought my own name fairer than on your tongue, my friend.”

“Then say mine again,” Gimli urged gruffly, “and we shall hear yet a more beautiful sound.”

“Gimli,” Legolas obliged, and his voice wrapped around the name in a caress.  Gimli wished to reach for him again, to touch the hand that waited for him on Legolas’s knee, but he did not.  “You know who I am, then, and you know who I am not.  I am not the Lady Galadriel; I have not her grace and wisdom, nor her beauty.  But if you wish it” –

“I would not have her grace or wisdom from you,” Gimli interrupted, “and I do not see her when I look upon you.  You are Legolas,” he repeated, and now he shuffled closer on his knees so that he could brush a thumb over Legolas’s cheekbone, “and from you I would have whatever you are willing to give.”

“And would you offer the same in your turn?” Voice hushed, Legolas reached up to wrap his fingers lightly around Gimli’s wrist – and Gimli could feel his pulse speed up, as though his very blood were trying to get closer to Legolas, stopped only by the thinnest barrier of skin.  “Would that I were one who could love unselfishly, who could find joy in giving all that I am, expecting naught in return – but I am afraid, my dear Gimli, that I am too selfish for that.  I must know, ere I go any further, if this is something you would return.”

And Legolas looked at him expectantly, with those eyes that again pleaded for closeness while pushing away, and Gimli could not speak, because in his ears the words _my dear Gimli_ still echoed, because he could not help but realize that Legolas had said the word _love_ . . .

“I would,” he rasped, turning his hand in Legolas’s grip until their fingers were interlaced.  “I would have all that you are willing to give, and I would give you all that I am, and more, if I could.”

“All that you are.”  Legolas did not smile, but there was an awed joy on his face that seemed to lurk within his eyes and cheeks, without turning the corners of his mouth.  He looked at their clasped hands for a long while and then brought his other hand up to gently disentangle their fingers, until Gimli’s hand lay open in both of his.  “And all that I am is yours, too, for as long as you wish to have it.”  And he lifted Gimli’s hand to his face and tucked a kiss into the center of his palm.  His lips lingered for a moment while Gimli sat still, not daring to move, and then he withdrew and folded Gimli’s fingers over the spot, as though bidding him hold on.  And Gimli did: he kept his hand clenched tightly around the place from which trembling warmth still radiated, where he could still feel the press of lips.

“I wish to have it,” he murmured.  “For as long as we both dwell here, and longer, were that possible.”

 _As long as we both dwell here_. Those words fell hard, Gimli knew, on both of them; Legolas’s eyes shaded and darkened, and he bowed his head.  But he did not speak, and Gimli did not either, until finally he reached forward to cup the elf’s face in his hands.  “Let us speak no more,” he whispered.  “For what good are words, when mouths could talk in more pleasant ways?”

Now the darkness in Legolas’s eyes was all pupil, irises nearly swallowed up.  His lids lowered, head inclined, lips parted –

Pleasant indeed.

This time, they did not break apart until Gimli’s hands started fumbling at Legolas’s tunic.  With a regretful sigh, Legolas pulled back.  “Gimli” – he panted.

Gimli froze.  “I am sorry,” he said immediately.  “Have I overstepped?”

Legolas’s face was flushed, hair more tangled than before.  He was more mussed than Gimli had ever seen him, and he had seen Legolas after many battles.  “Nay,” he breathed.  “You do not overstep, but before you proceed, I must – I must tell you” – He pulled back further, but kept his hands in Gimli’s.  “I would bind myself to you,” he said, eyes steady on Gimli’s.  “Body and soul together, as is the way of my people.  But I know it is not so for all, and I wished for you to know, before you started something that you may not be ready to finish.”

“I” – Gimli swallowed, looked down at the slender hands in his.  “My soul is already bound to you, my friend – my love.”  His voice trembled.  “But there are traditions – courtship rituals – among my people, and I would – I would do this correctly, according to our standards and to yours.”

“I understand.”  Legolas smiled now, his face shining.  “Then we shall content ourselves with kisses, until we may return to our people and make plain the bonds of our hearts for dwarf and elf alike.”  His grin turned wicked.  “I hope the burden of waiting is not too heavy for you to bear.”

“No burden is too heavy for a dwarf’s shoulders,” Gimli retorted immediately, unable to stop his own smile.  “I hope only that _you_ are able to bear the wait.”

“I do not intend for it to be an unpleasant one.”  This time, Legolas pounced.

…

Much later, they lay together between two roots of an enormous tree, the roots large and thick enough that they created the outline of a bed large enough for both of them.  One blanket was spread beneath them and one above; both were clothed only from the waist down.  Gimli’s head rested on a pillow made of a folded blanket and the arm of an elf, for Legolas had curled around him, Gimli’s form tucked within his longer limbs.  Both of his hands moved languidly: one stroking gently through Gimli’s hair, the other drawing light patterns on Gimli’s chest.

“How long?” Gimli asked, after drifting in blissful contentment for some time.

“Mm?” Legolas’s fingers traced the muscles of Gimli’s chest and belly, warmth rising beneath his skin as though drawn to the touch.  It was very distracting, but Gimli focused.

“How long,” he repeated, “have you known?”

“Known,” Legolas repeated, as though turning the word around in his mind.  “I do not know, honestly, Gimli.  I think that the knowledge settled within me some time ago; it was merely a matter of opening my eyes to it.”

“And when did your eyes open?”  One of Gimli’s own hands reached out to settle over Legolas’s on his chest, stilling the motion of his fingers as he pressed their hands flat to his heart.

“Again, I do not know,” said Legolas slowly.  “But I believe it was during the battle at Helm’s Deep that the inklings began to settle in.  When we were separated” – His fingers kneaded at Gimli’s skin, pressing one by one into his chest – “I looked long for you to come back, and was startled at the depth of my fear when I could not find you.  It was then, I think, that I realized you had become dearer to my heart than any other.”

There was a heartbeat in Gimli’s stomach, it seemed, a rush of warmth with every pulse.  He lifted their joined hands to his lips and kissed Legolas’s fingertips, one by one.  When he reached the thumb, Legolas pushed lightly, slipping it between Gimli’s lips and into his mouth, and Gimli grazed it with tongue and teeth before letting him go again.

“Such a long time,” he said as Legolas’s fingers returned to sketching patterns on his skin.  “Did anyone else know?”

Legolas’s chest vibrated as he laughed.  “Aragorn did.”

“Did you tell him?”

Legolas laughed again.  “I did not have to.”  The hand on Gimli’s chest flipped over, combing through his beard from the underside in a way that made Gimli shiver most pleasantly.  “I am told my heart is easy to read.”

“Easy enough for Aragorn, perhaps.”  Gimli closed his eyes in contentment and relaxed still further against Legolas’s body.

“Do not tell me you did not know!”  Legolas’s voice was scolding; the fingers in Gimli’s hair tightened, tugging gently.  “You did not question me when I kissed you; surely you had an inkling” –

“An inkling, yes,” Gimli interrupted, “but I could not be certain it was not my own wishful thinking.”

Apparently he had said the right thing; there was motion above and then a kiss was pressed into his hair.  “Wishful thinking, was it?” he said playfully.  “Pray tell me, then, Gimli: when did _you_ begin to wish?”

“Pelargir,” Gimli replied promptly; this he knew.  “When you” – He suddenly did not want to finish, but there was no choice, not with Legolas tensing behind him, not when they both knew what he was going to say.  The words came out in a voice barely above a whisper.  “When you heard the gulls.”

There was a long silence, broken by a long sigh from Legolas behind him.  Gimli waited for him to speak, but he did not.

“I, too,” Gimli had to swallow before he could let out the next words.  “I, too, wished not to be parted from you.”

“You will not be.”

The words were soft, fainter even than Gimli’s had been, but edged with steely determination nonetheless.  “I know not what is to come for us, Gimli,” he said, “and I hope that we have many years in which to find out, but – I will not leave you behind, I promise you this.  Not unless you wish for me to go.”

“That will never happen.”  He had not been able to look at Legolas’s face before, grateful for their position that meant he could stare into the darkness while he listened, but now he found himself turning, upsetting the blanket above them and pressing too hard into Legolas’s arm as he did so, until they were face to face, chest to chest.  He extracted an arm from the tangle and clasped a hand to the back of Legolas’s neck, pulling him in to kiss him hard.

Legolas hardly resisted: he made that sound again, the one Gimli had grown to relish pulling out of him, and went soft and pliant in Gimli’s arms even as his own circled tighter, pulling them closer together.  His mouth opened under Gimli’s, his hands slid into Gimli’s hair, and every other part of him was warm and gentle, and Gimli felt he could practically dissolve into him, press himself into the welcome of Legolas’s embrace and be lost.

Lost, and gladly so.

The flame that had prompted the urgent kiss died down, slowly, burning down into comfortable glowing coals in the warmth where their bodies were pressed together.  Gimli let his mouth slide away from Legolas’s, and with a sigh he curled his head down and buried it against the elf’s neck.

“I love you,” he murmured into warm, smooth skin.  “You know it, of course, but I had yet to say it in as many words.  I love you, Legolas, and I wish to be by your side forever.”

A slender hand smoothed down the length of Gimli’s hair, from crown to mid-back, and a sigh shivered his body.  “And I love you,” Legolas replied softly.  “There is much to decide about the coming years, but – I am comforted knowing that we will not willingly be parted.”

Relief and love were mingling into a sudden strong exhaustion, and Gimli nestled more snugly into the warmth of Legolas’s body.  “You have always comforted me,” he managed, words slurring together in tiredness.

Legolas laughed lightly, and stroked his hair again.  “Then rest, my love,” he whispered, “and be comforted.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I've had this written for a few months but have been extremely nervous about actually entering this fandom rather than just lurking. But I decided that the world needs more Legolas/Gimli fic, so I'm trying this out. I did my best at Tolkien-esque language, which is extremely hard, and much of the headcanon is influenced by having read a bunch of other fic. (I'm struggling with impostor syndrome, as I bet a lot of people do in this fandom, for not being a "real" fan and getting most of my information from fanfic rather than from sources outside the books) Anyway, this has been enough rambling, probably.


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